A Year in the Underground
by Tabari Avaren
Summary: Running parallel to HBP, this is the story of Remus Lupin's efforts as a spy among the fugitive werewolf community. Follow him as he grapples with his growing love for Tonks, the Order, and his conscience as he spies among his own kind.
1. Murder at Midnight

**A Year in the Underground**

by Tabari Avaren

Disclaimer: Much as I love Harry Potter, I do not own it in any way, shape, or form. That distinct honor goes to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, and anybody else I've forgotten.

Author's Notes: This is my most ambitous project so far. I've loved Remus/Tonks for time out of mind, after reading the incomperable FernWithy and also excellent authors of the ship like Pandora Culpa and Jess Pallas (plug! plug!). This is something a bit different than whatmy idols have attempted, though I certainly credit their influence.

Planned and plotted, this will be a near novel-length fic that, I hope, will successfuly combine Drama and Romance, not to mention a little horror and suspense along the way. Installations may be slow, as I'm a full-time student, but the plot bunny that inspired this fic was so strong, combining themes I've grappled with for years, that I think I'll succeed. I hope to see all of you to the end.

Any reviews are always welcome. Deflate my ego as needed - I'm especially worried about Americanisms, anachronisms, and errors in London geography.

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**Chapter One: Murder at Midnight**

"Remus!"

Remus Lupin woke with a start as his fire flared green, and a young woman with a pale, heart-shaped face leapt out of the fireplace. Scrambling out of his cot, clutching his sheet around him as a makeshift bathrobe, he stared, bleary-eyed, at his visitor. "Nymphadora! What is it?"

Remus's unexpected guest had clearly been crying, given her puffy eyes and dirty face, but her voice was level during her official Order debriefing.

"Remus, I'm here to report a casualty," she began, leaning on Remus Lupin's bureau as she spoke, while he hastily scrambled into his usual battered robes. "Emmeline Vance has been found dead in her home. The dark mark was spotted at 0200 today by three muggles, since obliviated. First to report were Order aurors Tonks and Shacklebolt, followed by Dawlish, Forsythe, and Macomb. Method of execution appears to be Avada Kedavra; no sign of torture or struggle. Vance was found within her own bedroom. Probable apparition-disapparition killing. Minister of Magic has already been informed, as have Dumbledore, the Weasleys, and the Hogwarts contingent. I'm here to bring you to an emergency Order meeting, which will begin… began five seconds ago."

By now, Remus was fully dressed, and he had his wand out, pointed straight at the young auror's heart.

"Oh, good, Remus!" she said, a happy smile suffusing her tired face. "You've finally remembered."

"Yes, yes, security question: what form does my patronus take?"

"It's a dog," Tonks whispered, her voice sad again. "It's Sirius, as a dog."

Remus rubbed his eyes, and nodded.

"Alright, then," Tonks said with a sigh. "Your turn. What does mine turn into?"

Remus smiled at this. "A chameleon. Has been for as long as I've known you."

"Alright, then," Tonks said with a sigh. "Off to the Order Meeting we go."

"Where's it being held tonight?" Remus asked. "And do you know when we'll be back at permanent headquarters?"

"No idea," Tonks said. "Anyway, it's at Snape's house, tonight. That man has more security than anyone, 'cept maybe Dumbledore…"

With a pop, she vanished into the night, and Remus followed after.

Sixteen exhausted, grief-stricken Order members all squeezed into Severus Snape's tiny sitting room. Some of them, notably Flitwick and Elphias Doge, had been very close to Emmeline Vance; others, like Lupin and Tonks, had known the woman only through the Order or work at the Ministry. Dumbledore had pride of place in the ratty armchair, while everyone else piled onto the threadbare sofa which magically expanded to fit eight, or just stood. Remus graciously allowed for Professor McGonagall to take his place, which she accepted with a disapproving sniff, as if she thought him much to fragile to be standing on his own two feet. It was weeks since the moon, however, and he felt steady enough with a cup of tea in his hand, provided by, of course, Molly Weasley.

When all had assembled, Dumbledore began.

"You should all have been briefed about this night's tragedy," he said, his voice somber. "And you should all realize what a terrible breach of security this is. A sad irony: we spend a year trying to persuade the world that Voldemort is back, and when everyone knows, we are rewarded for our efforts with violence and executions. Madame Emmeline Vance is a heroine for what she did for her cause, and how she died for it."

With a sigh, fingering his wand slowly, Dumbledore said, "I've brought you here tonight to discuss further Order security. We have implemented heightened security, true, but we are all vulnerable in our own homes, and if we continue to die, one by one, there shall be none of us left for the eventual battle, if and when it comes. We need to discuss our options. If anyone has suggestions, I should like to hear them."

Molly Weasley raised her hand timidly, but spoke without being called on. "Albus, forgive me for my ignorance – but why couldn't we all use the Fidelius Charm, like you did for the Order headquarters? I mean – well – my family, our clock… we've all been at mortal peril for weeks now…"

If some looked confused by Mrs. Weasley's last statement, Dumbledore understood it. "Molly," he said, not without sympathy, "The Fidelius Charm is immensely complex – I'm hardly the expert that Filius is, but the complications, and if it goes wrong…"

Professor Flitwick, from where he sat on the sofa, piped up, "The Fidelius Charm does provide protection, but at a terrible risk – if the Secret Keeper dies before ending the charm, the site of his secret disappears also. Those for whom the secret is kept will still know of it, but no-one new can learn of it, and neither can a new Secret Keeper be created. It is a grave risk for the Order, but of course only one wizard in the world is truly a match for Professor Dumbledore."

If Dumbledore was annoyed by this praise, he did not show it. With a sigh, he said, "Yes. It is a risk worth taking, that I am a Secret Keeper for 12 Grimmauld Place, but imagine the consequences of widespread use of Fidelius! We'd all like it not to happen, but there are sure to be more casualties, and it would be chaotic for homes to disappear permanently to the outside world if the Secret Keepers should die."

Molly Weasley sagged where she stood, and her husband caught her, holding his wife against his chest. "Well," she said. "It was worth hoping, I suppose."

"In that same vein, Dumbledore," Elphias Doge suggested, "What about making our homes Unplottable? I mean, Headquarters was even before it became headquarters, and it was a private residence."

"Same problem as Fidelius," Moody growled. "It's all very well for the Death Eaters not to see you, but Unplottable is damn near permanent, and it's more than a nuisance for all but the most important places. Not that Order homes aren't important, but think of the consequences…"

"Wha' about creatures?" Hagrid said. "I mean, maybe not Gringotts' style, we can' all have dragons, but why not somethin' else? I know a chappie who'd be more 'n' willing to sell us a couple Cerberus, like as I got Fluffy."

The evening devolved into a long and complex argument about the ramifications of magical creatures among other security provisions. Finally, it was concluded that all homes should have anti-apparition wards at least one hundred feet in perimeter, with alarms set to go off should anyone try to apparate within that zone, or if an unidentified person should step within that radius. Molly Weasley looked crestfallen at the amount of work that would require: the Burrow, so irregular and always busy, would be immensely difficult to ward.

By now, it was vaguely morning outside, although the perpetual gloom of Spinner's End made it hard to distinguish from the night. Professor Flitwick had dozed off to sleep on the sofa, Arabella Figg was supported only by her large and sturdy umbrella, and even Tonks couldn't keep herself from yawning periodically.

"Well, I think it's time to adjourn," Dumbledore said, standing, the armchair groaning under him. "I wish you all farewell and good luck. Don't hesitate to owl myself or Alastor should you need help with the wards. Remus, Nymphadora, could you stay behind? I'd like a word with the both of you." He exited into other parts of the house, his violet cloak swirling dramatically about him.

While everyone else streamed out into the open air to find a safe apparition point, Remus collapsed onto the sofa with a heavy sigh, and Tonks staggered to find a seat as well. Snape, who had been hovering batlike in a corner throughout the meeting, swooped into the center of the tiny room.

"How nice to see you again, Lupin," he said with something near a hiss. "Do make yourself at home."

"Severus," Remus acknowledged. "If you'd rather I stayed elsewhere while waiting for Dumbledore…"

"Oh no, do make yourself comfortable. I'm used to all matter of filth gathering in my abode, one more halfbreed won't make a difference."

Remus ignored the barb, but Tonks bristled. The werewolf tried to signal her he didn't care, but she wouldn't be hushed by his tacit hints.

"Severus, I don't know why he lets you, but I don't think you should get away with that!" she exclaimed. Her hair had changed to bright red, presumably without her noticing it, and in her anger, she grew taller and taller as she stood.

Snape leered at her, entirely unimpressed. "Sit down, Miss Tonks!" he barked, and, still close to her schoolgirl days, she complied before she could help herself. She flushed.

"Touching though it is to see your attachment to your canine friend – your family seems to have had an affinity for such riffraff – I'm afraid I can't stay with you lovebirds. I have more pressing matters at hand, like delaying Wormtail's return. He lives here, you know."

Remus started again, half-rising, but then sat.

"Didn't know that, did you, Lupin?" Snape asked, his lip curling. "Not that you'd be man enough to do anything about it."

He swept out, leaving Lupin pale and Tonks shaking with rage. "How dare he! How DARE he!"

"It's alright, Nymphadora, don't worry. Severus has enough troubles of his own; I don't mind if he vents on me. Heaven knows, I deserve much of it."

"He did the same to Sirius all last year, and look what happened! Don't you go taking any of it to heart either, you hear me! Oh, I'll be having a word with Dumbledore about _this_."

She was so incensed her fingernails – grown into wolfish claws – quite ripped through the horsehair cover of the sofa. With a curse, she mended the damage cursorily, and fell to drumming her fingers, waiting for Dumbledore.

"Nympha-" Remus began, but Tonks's furious glare at her given name halted him. "Tonks," Remus said, "I'm not going to die like Sirius. A few nasty words with a bitter man won't drive me mad, not if everything else hasn't." He lay his head back on the sofa with an exhausted groan. "I hope Albus hurries up," he said, with a touch of impatience unusual for the man.

"I'm here, Remus," Professor Dumbledore said, sticking his white-haired head out from the grubby kitchen. "No – Tonks, you can stay, too," he said, for the young auror had risen to excuse herself. "You're likely to become involved, too."

"What's this about?" Tonks asked, straightening, her face coming alive with interest again.

"I have a mission for Remus, if he'll take it, although I must stress that it's absolutely imperative." Albus sat down in the armchair again, crossing his legs, a pair of emerald green dragonhide boots poking out from underneath. With a sigh, he began. "Remus, we have intelligence that Fenrir Greyback has returned from Siberia."

"What?" Remus said, starting. "When – have there been any attacks?"

"Ah, excuse me, but who's Greyback?" Tonks asked, butting in.

With a mild look of reproof, Dumbledore said, "He's a werewolf, but more than that, he's notorious – he worked with the enemy during the first war, too. He is responsible for many savage attacks, during the full moon or out of it, and he has a penchant for attacking small children – as Remus can testify."

"Oh Merlin," Tonks said, putting a hand to her mouth. Her nails were still clawlike, perhaps in sympathy.

"Quite. Severus has testified that Greyback is back – he's been seen at Death Eater summonses."

"I thought – he worked freelance the last war – so…"

"He has taken the mark," Dumbledore said. "As soon as rumors of Voldemort's return were confirmed, he rushed back to England, and Voldemort is in need of followers to swell his ranks. Greyback was compelled to do something by a power greater than he, which has not made him happy. In any case – yes, Remus, there has been an attack. A little girl, Sarah Pepper. She is – she is not expected to survive."

Remus had his head in his hands, but he looked up long enough to say, "What can I do?"

"We need a spy," Dumbledore said bluntly. "As Severus works, so must you. It will be the same sort of task, too – information is more important than persuasion, at this point. I need you to enter the underground, through the few communities left in Britain. I need you to get as close to Greyback as you possibly can."

Remus was drawn, his narrow face a shade to match the streaks of grey in his hair, but he nodded. "I'll do it, Albus. When do I begin?"

"You begin," the Headmaster said, "as soon as Auror Tonks here can arrange for a little accident on your files with the Werewolf Registry. Remus needs to be completely under the ministry's radar – he needs to be immune from the normal pressures of the Department for the Control of Magical Creatures, at least as much as is possible. You have connections with Amos Diggory, correct?"

"That's right," Tonks said. "I was in charge of poor Cedric's case during that sham of an investigation. The Aurory didn't even bother to investigate whether Crouch jr. could have done it – just took it face value from the Minister! Well, it was go along to get along, those days…" Her face was a mask of disgust.

"Well, pay Mr. Diggory a visit, and see if he can be persuaded to look the other way if Remus misses his regular checkins and registry dates, that sort of thing."

"Gotcha," the young auror said. "He'd be willing enough to do me a favor, although this might be tough to wrangle – the man really hates dark creatures. He has a vampire stake and other … trophies in his office." She winced. "Dedicated to his job, Amos is."

"Remus, I'll be contacting you after the next full moon," Dumbledore said, rising. "Tonks here will be your Order contact – I'll have something discreet set up for you – but you'll have to rely on yourself as much as possible. An integrated man such as yourself will attract enough attention as it is."

Remus nodded, standing also. Walking quickly, he held the door for the Headmaster, who swept out into the dismal morning, his cloak billowing out around him.


	2. Moving Mayhem

Author's Note: Nothing much to say, save that this will probably turn up on Schnoogle at Fictionalley some time in the future. Also, if anyone would like to beta for me, it would be much appreciated. Next chapter in perhaps a week.

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**Chapter Two: Moving Mayhem**

Nymphadora Tonks stood, her hands firmly planted in the voluminous pockets at the hips of her robes, surveying the small pile of boxes and crates Remus Lupin had assembled. Eying all of Lupin's earthly possessions, she said, "You sure you don't just want to dump them at my flat? It's not like I spend any time there, and this wouldn't take up much space."

"No, thank you, Tonks," Remus said. "I certainly won't impose, not when I haven't the faintest idea when I'll be back from – wherever it is I'm going. I wish Dumbledore had been more forthcoming." He rubbed the back of his neck, stretched, and winced as his vertebrae creaked.

"Worry about that after the next moon," the young auror said tartly. "C'mon. Let's get all of this junk out of here – where did you say you're leaving it?"

"Well, most of the furniture's going on consignment, and I'm giving my grindylows to Hagrid, for his Care of Magical Creatures class – heavens, the man does like his dangerous creatures – but I've found a reputable storage center in Diagon Alley which said they'd take it for indefinite periods of time. I just have to order Gringotts to take money from my vault every month."

Tonks frowned, her hands still jammed in her pockets. "What on earth is in those boxes, anyway? It certainly isn't much – aren't you taking anything with you, wherever you're going?"

"Oh, just books, and a few odds and ends. And that reminds me – I think Sirius would have liked you to have this… he left it with me last year, before we reclaimed Headquarters, and I hadn't found it until I was packing…"

Lupin was holding a small figurine of a black dog, a porcelain affair, deftly painted. When Tonks took it, she found it warm to the touch, and the incessantly smiling expression on the dog's face made her laugh softly – it was a Labrador, perhaps, with its lolling tongue and great brown eyes.

"Oh, Remus… no, I can't."

Lupin closed Tonks's hand around the figure with his own, and looked into her eyes, suddenly a watery grey. "I want you to have it. Sirius wasn't a sentimental man, goodness no, but he found a black mutt in our first year at Hogwarts, lurking around the edges of the Forbidden Forest, and he cried like a baby when Hagrid couldn't fix it up enough to live. Then, a little later, he had this miniature, and I don't think any of us were surprised by his animagus… well. It's yours, and I won't hear another word about it."

He smiled, a tight, aching smile, and straightened his cloak. "Let's get out of here, and quickly. My landlady's not a witch, and she's growing suspicious; it's why I have to move so often… well, at least I shan't have to pay rent any more. What the muggles charge is ridiculous these days, but I can hardly afford Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley, so…"

With a flick of his wand, Lupin shrunk the boxes and crates into a stack of tiny parcels, all of which he shoved haphazardly into a badly patched tote. On close inspection, Tonks noticed that the large plaid patch on the bottom left of the tote exactly matched the repairs done on the hood of Lupin's cloak. She winced.

To mask it, she said cheerily, "Well! Shall we get going, then?"

"Can we apparate into Diagon Alley?" Remus asked, frowning. "I don't know – I haven't been following Ministry security updates as closely as I should."

"Apparition's out, but the floos are still in service in The Leaky Cauldron. D'you have any powder?"

"I've got a little left. That's why rent's so expensive here – trying to find a cheap Muggle flat with a fireplace is like chasing snorcacks." He reached toward the mantle of his fireplace and then swore. "Damn it, I already packed the floo powder." He smiled apologetically at Tonks.

"Fancy a walk, then? Or we could use the Tube. The Muggle Underground really is a good idea. Now that apparition's mostly blocked these days, the Ministry should look into something similar – portkey stations, maybe. It would make life rather easier on those of us without brooms or autocars."

Tonks hooted. "Autocars? Who on earth says autocars, Lupin? I thought you were a halfblood!"

Looking affronted, but still courteous enough to hold the door open for his companion, Lupin said, "My grandmother was a very respectable woman, Muggle or otherwise, and she referred to them as autocars."

Still giggling, Tonks followed after.

Both of them had muggleborn relatives, and knew enough about the Underground not to embarrass themselves on the non-magic transportation. Remus got a few odd looks when he got his robes stuck on the turnstile, but Tonks, who dressed in Muggle attire unless forced to do otherwise, blended in perfectly. Her hair was canary yellow today, which looked absolutely awful with her pale skin and green eyes (all the Blacks except Narcissa had had dark hair and pale eyes), and she was wearing an artfully shredded Weird Sisters shirt with a pair of dungarees.

"It's nice to have normal old you be the one stared at, rather than me. Everybody here thinks I'm just another young hooligan. It's something to be said for the Muggles," Tonks remarked as she found a handrail on the train.

"Me? Old? I'm all of thirty-eight, thank you very much," Remus said, doing his best to look affronted.

The two of them chatted idly as they approached Charing Cross Road, Tonks looking out of the windows with obvious curiosity. As nobody could hear properly in the noisy train, the young witch dared to ask, "Do they get many creatures down in the tube? I mean, all these tunnels, you'd think they'd attract boggarts and nifflers and redcaps."

"It's nothing to joke about. Muggle workers have been disappearing in mists, their bodies found later sucked empty by dementors. They've been breeding." Lupin shuddered, and peered balefully into the darkness, every now and then seeing a glimpse of a platform.

The conversation died on the train after that cheery note, but the two were in good moods again as they walked into the Leaky Cauldron, said a quick hullo to Hagrid, who was drinking what looked like a pitcher of ale with Madame Maxime, and headed out into Diagon Alley proper. While the pub had still been its usual congenial self, albeit without the diverse clientele it had once attracted, Diagon Alley was markedly different. It had lost its perpetual holiday spirit: the street vendors had stopped selling sweets, and were now offering protective amulets (Lupin jumped straight in the air when he brushed against a Lycanth). Worse, though, was the atmosphere – there was no idle chatter any more, no laughing.

Tonks sighed, and turned to Lupin. "I hate to be a bother, but can I ditch you for an hour? I just noticed, Dawlish isn't on duty by the entrance to the Alley, and it's his shift. My auror senses of duty and justice are urging me to be a good girl and take his place until his replacement comes, which should be in … an hour. Anyway, meet you at Fortescue's?"

"That sounds lovely," Remus said. "Diagon Alley is lucky to have someone as dutiful as you are."

"Not even my shift," Tonks grumbled. "I'll give Dawlish dutiful when he gets back…"

After haggling with the witch behind the counter of _Bucklehaus, Bucklehaus, & Snodberry's , 1583_ over a suitable price for a self-transfiguring bed and sofa set, Lupin headed over to the ice cream shop, exhausted. He didn't care about his possessions, not that there were many, outside of his books and a few photos, but he did want to have some little money set by whenever he returned from his job for Dumbledore. Whatever that was, whenever he'd find out about it.

Tonks stormed into the shop fifteen minutes past their agreed time, her hair bright red and her nails clawlike again. It was her "angry face", all too familiar to Order members who'd been at her debriefing during the long year before the Ministry's recognition of Voldemort's return.

"D'you know why stinking Dawlish was gone? D'you want to know why?" She slammed her chair down in front of the little table outside the café. "Because Rufus Scrimgouer's just gotten the top job at the Ministry, after Fudge, and – get this – nobody bothered to rearrange the aurors' schedule! Dawlish is head of the Aurory now, but he didn't have the presence of mind to make sure somebody else was covering his shift. This is the idiot who's going to be my boss! And they have Kingsley working as a secretary. It's retaliation, is what it is! Oops, you were right, let's stick you in a dead-end job and hope everybody forgets you knew the bloody truth while everyone else was behaving like Ostriches with their heads stuck in the ground. I swear, I'm filing a complaint with Scrimgoeur as soon as I get back into the office. I am not going to –"

"Tonks," Remus said, "you're shaking the table."

Indeed she was – she was so angry, she kept gripping the flimsy little café table and then releasing it, making it rock back and forth, the brightly-colored umbrella leaning precariously toward Remus.

"Oh. Sorry." She blushed, her cheeks as scarlet as her hair. "Gods, I'm sorry, Remus, but if there's one thing I can't stand, it's incompetents like Dawlish who still get rewarded in all the bureaucratic shuffle. He's been here for twenty years, nobody's ever complained loudly about him, hasn't distinguished himself in any way but he hasn't been a bother either – here's a medal, now sit behind this desk all day and make more of a muddle out of things than your predecessors. Great idea."

"I think you've just pinpointed why I never joined the Ministry," Remus said dryly. "Well, that, and the little problem of my being a werewolf." He grimaced. "Did you know that it's illegal for werewolves to get a job in the Ministry? Or to vote for appointments to the Wizengamot? Even if you've never done a single untoward thing in my life – though I can't say that would be me, given all the fiascos I've caused – even if you've been the most exemplary adherent of all two hundred and ninety-seven clauses in the Werewolf Code of Conduct – you're still not a citizen, of Britain or any magical nation, as far as I know. Not even the NAMF _(North American Magical Federation)_, as far as I know, and they're by far the most liberal. Oh, Merlin, sorry. First you're ranting, then me." He smiled apologetically.

"Naw, that wasn't ranting, Remus. You don't have it in you, quite, to rant. You're too mild-mannered, quiet, unassuming. This, my friend, is ranting." She stood up, and suddenly, she began to grow taller, her cheeks redder, her hair brighter, her nails longer and sharper. She opened her mouth to speak –

And with a sharp yank to her hand, Remus dragged her back into her seat. "What on earth are you doing?" he hissed.

"Hah, scared you," Tonks said, leaning back in her chair. "Really, you get too worked up about things, Remus. You need to relax, take a joke, go with the flow."

"You sound just like Sirius," Remus muttered, but he couldn't help smile. It was true – Tonks could be very much like her cousin. The Black blood flowed true, it seemed, though Remus was very glad that it was from Andromeda's particular strain.

At the mention of Sirius, Tonks's face fell, and, contrite, Remus leaned over, and impulsively grabbed her hand. "Oh, Nymphadora, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said that, I know you're still grieving. We all are." Embarassed again, he withdrew his hand.

Sniffling, Tonks smiled, although she looked tearful. Her hair had suddenly shifted to mouse brown, and Remus worried, if she were loosing control of her morphs so easily. "Don't call me Nymphadora. No, Remus, it's okay. You couldn't have known – well. I was just a kid when Sirius went to Azkaban, and it was very hard on my Mum. She and Sirius were very close as kids, he looked up to her, and she'd always felt responsible for him. She couldn't believe that he'd killed his friends and all those Muggles, and it was a bad way with her for some time. When she'd get angry at me, if I'd done something very bad, she'd say that I would turn out just like my cousin Sirius. I'd only met him once or twice, but I'd liked him so much at the time… I didn't really know what he'd done, and I thought, 'Well, I liked him so much, maybe I really am like him, I must be a bad person.' It was the sort of thing a kid thinks…"

Remus didn't know what to say, so he settled for looking out into the fast-moving streets of Diagon Alley. The café was nearly empty, since these days, nobody much felt like lingering in public places.

They sat in awkward silence until Florean Fortescue himself came to take their order. The man was dressed in his usual dapper blue, but his face looked strained. Tonks ordered three scoops of pistachio icecream with butterscotch syrup and a cherry; Remus opted for vanilla with chopped almonds.

"Honestly, you're so boring," Tonks said, through a mouthful of ice cream.

"I don't know how you escape indigestion," Remus said, perfectly content to be stodgy in his ice cream.

"We Blacks have iron stomachs," Tonks said. "Actually, the Tonkses do, too. My grandmother, on my mother's side, she's a matron of the depression era. All my Dad ever ate was roast mutton, peas, and mashed potatos. Every day. Tasted like shoe leather, he said, and after Chrismas Dinner at Granny's I'm not about to disagree."

"Did you notice how edgy Fortescue looks?" Remus said.

"Everybody's been in a bad mood lately," Tonks replied. "Hell, even Ollivander's been antsy. He called the Aurory just last night, complaining about prowlers. I've never seen Ollivander spooked before, nobody has – not even in the last war. It's like things are darker now, in the underworld. Savage, he's our criminal expert over at the Aurory, and Mundungus – they say that everybody's scared, especially the low-level crooks. There's stuff going on that's never happened before. The Death Eaters mean serious business this time, they're pissed about that thirteen-year enforced holiday, and I think it's gonna be worse than ever before."

"Well, that's nice to know," Remus said. "Comforting, you might say, given that I'm about to head into that underworld."

"No laughing matter," Tonks said, serious for once. "I'm scared for you, Remus. Dumbledore's asking a lot from you, and you've given him so many favors over the years…"

"My debt to Dumbledore is one that I can never, ever make up. I will do anything for him, and for the cause."

He and Tonks continued to chat for nearly an hour, until a very nervous Fortescue told them that due to safety concerns, the parlor would be closing an hour early.

Remus insisted on paying for the ice cream, given the illusion of wealth that pawning off nearly all his earthly possessions had given him. As he rose to leave, he took Tonks's hand and gave it a slight peck, though he hadn't planned on doing any such thing and hadn't kissed a lady's hand since he was twenty, and so desperate to get a girl, any girl, that he'd acted like something out of a cheap romance novel.

"Remus, are you feeling all right?" Tonks asked, as she scooted in her chair and headed for the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron.

"Perfectly fine, Tonks. Simply overwhelmed at the prospect of bidding so lovely and dedicated a lady as you adieu for the evening." He smiled, and laughed softly.

"Speaking of which, where ARE you holing up?" she asked.

"I was going to go to go to Grimmauld Place, now that our ownership is cleared…"

Tonks looked at him in horror. "Oh, no, you can't. I won't let you sit in that dismal shack by yourself waiting for Dumbledore to… to throw you to the wolves!"

"I've got no other place to go, Tonks," Remus said. "I couldn't stay on at my flat, since I can hardly afford the rent if I'm not going to be in it."

"C'mon," Tonks said, grabbing his arm. "You're coming home with me."


	3. Houseguest

**Chapter Three**:

To Remus's great but silent relief, Tonks lived in no mansion, as he'd feared she might. Andromeda had gotten no part of the family fortune, and she and her husband Ted made an honest, moderate living, as did their daughter. Ministry employees were paid notoriously badly, which was why the Weasleys were chronically poor and why Tonks lived in a studio apartment perhaps a closet larger than Remus's old flat. Tonks threw her wand and satchel onto the square foot of counterspace in her diminutive kitchen, and deposited Remus's battered suitcase onto a dingy rollaway couch squeezed against the wall next to a rickety wardrobe and an obviously secondhand bed with a sagging mattress.

"Welcome to my ever-so-humble abode," Tonks said cheerily. "Not much to look at, but since I have very few gentleman callers, aside from yourself, the mess of a bachelor flat doesn't bother me much."

"Wouldn't that be a spinster?" Remus mused aloud, but Tonks ignored him. She, with a frenetic energy that escaped her guest, was already making tea and boiling two eggs, her wand directing all action in what, to Remus's mind, was a distressingly cluttered kitchen.

While Tonks made afternoon tea, Remus compulsively straightened and cleaned, fluffing out pillows and smoothing out wrinkles in had once been a puce shag carpet.

Tonks paid Remus no mind until his hands inched towards her wardrobe.

"Oi! No rummaging through my undergarments!" she called out at him, and he practically leaped backwards.

Abashed, he moved towards the kitchen, looking for something helpful to do.

"Leave be, Remus," Tonks said with a touch of irritation. "I invited you over as a guest, not a housekeeper. Sit down and … and read the newspaper, or something! I can't work with you hovering about."

Remus did just that.

A half-hour later, Remus and Tonks shared soft-boiled eggs on toast with a warm mug of tea, perched on the edge of the decaying sofa, plate on one knee and mug on the other.

"I'm sorry about the hospitality, Remus, but I have evening shift," Tonks said apologetically.

"No, Tonks, I'm sorry for being such a bother," Remus apologized in turn. "Dumbledore will give me my orders tomorrow, and I'll be out of here quick as can be. You have better things to do than keep a werewolf on your sofa."

Tonks sniffed, but was already a minute late, and had to bustle about collecting wand, robes (the Ministry did enforce dress codes), and satchel.

"I'll be back about midnight!" she shouted, before disappearing through the door.

Alone in somebody else's home, Remus was at a loss. Finally, he decided that the wisest course of action would simply be to go to sleep.

A light sleeper, when Tonks came home in a clatter at one twenty-seven in the morning, Remus bolted upright, his hand inching toward his wand. He relaxed when recognized her exhausted face, and sank down onto his pillows again, but sat up again when he saw the tears on her face.

"Tonks!"

"I'm sorry, Remus, but it's been a bad night," she said, sniffling. She dumped her things on the floor with a thump and then fell backwards onto her bed.

"What happened? Or – is it classified?"

"It'll be in the paper tomorrow, of course," Tonks said bitterly. "Two kids, not even in Hogwarts yet, were attacked by Dementors in Lincoln, and a wizard intervened too late to save them. God, I hate – walking up to their parents, telling them their kids are nothing more than _shells_ anymore, empty forever…"

The loathing that Remus always felt when he thought of the Dementors made him rigid with shock and anger.

"Oh, Remus, we're not winning," the young auror said hopelessly. "The Ministry's paralyzed. Aurory's useless – we mop up afterwards, we don't do anything to prevent this stuff, or, God forbid, take preemptive action. We just chase after shadows when the deed is done and apologize about it afterwards. I_ hate_ this!" She pounded her fist on the mattress, which groaned noisily.

"Here, sit up," Remus said, and he handed Tonks a massive slab of his "medicinal" chocolate. While she munched on the sticky sweet, he rubbed her back slowly, until the shuddering sobs she'd been repressing all day faded away.

"Oh, you're such a dear," Tonks said between mouthfuls.

"It's nothing," Remus said softly. "Shh, shh. Tonks, you do more than almost anybody. You work so hard, of course you're tired…" He comforted her softly until she was done with the chocolate.

Licking her fingers, Tonks smiled tearfully at him. "I don't know what I'd do without you," she said, sniffing. "You're such a rock."

And then she leaned over and kissed him.

At first, Remus began to respond, but then jerked backwards, horrified.

"Oh, Tonks, no, I can't."

Now angry, Tonks wiped a hand across her sticky, wet face and said hotly, "Why not?"

There were so many possible answers to the challenge that Remus chose the weakest one. "It wouldn't be right while I'm in your flat," he said.

"You idiot! I wasn't going to sleep with you, just kiss you!"

"And besides, you're too young. No," he amended, "I'm too old. I knew you – well, I met you, anyway – when you were still a toddler, and I was a grown man."

Tonks stared at him. "Remus. You're a wizard, and thirty-seven is not old! It's not as if I'm still in my nappies, you know. Or do you think I'm a – kid!"

Remus was surprised at how explosive her reaction was, and changed tack. "Tonks, I'm a werewolf. It would ruin your life to get involved with me. I'm a danger once a month –"

"So am I," Tonks said tartly.

"That's disgusting," Remus said, "and it's beside the point."

"It's perfectly natural, thank you very much, and how is it beside the point? You saw me three weeks ago, when I nearly killed Shacklebolt because he didn't pass the salt quickly enough for me, it's not like you go completely crazy for a week, is it –"

Remus reached out and put a finger against Tonks's lips, stopping her increasingly noisy arguments. "It would never work," he said softly.

"Because you won't even give it a chance," she said with uncharacteristic bitterness.

"It doesn't even have a chance," he retorted.

"Look, Remus, we may not even be here tomorrow - I'm an auror, you're about to become a spy, and you-know-who wants both our heads. Why shouldn't we get it while we can?"

"You sound like you think we're going to die any minute," Remus said, trying to lighten the tone slightly.

"Maybe we are," Tonks said softly. "Hell, I don't even know where you're going, where Dumbledore's going to send you."

She sounded small and lonely, too defeated to be the vibrant witch Remus – loved.

Giving in to the inevitable, Remus reached out toward her again, and this time, he kissed her.

When they broke apart, they sat in the dark flat, with only a sputtering electric light on in the kitchen, leaning against each other. It was dismal, Remus reflected, but it was life, and the Tonks next to him, tears still wet on her cheeks, was anything but dismal.

"You know, you were right in a way," Remus said half to himself, half to Tonks. "We may not be here tomorrow, and all that. Well documented fact that baby booms occur during and after wars."

Tonks giggled through her tears. "That's how I happened. My mother – I'm sure you've heard the story – during her seventh year, well, she got a little bit too much comfort from Dad."

"It's nice to know we're just acting out our biological imperatives," Remus said dryly.

Tonks leaned against him adorably. "Do you have any more chocolate?"


	4. Into the Underground

**Author's Notes:**

Sorry about how disjointed this is! It's something of a here-to-there chapter, but the next one will be more continous. As you will see, this is where the crux of the plot becomes revealed. Enjoy, and I promise to break the cliffhanger as soon as possible!

To my reviewers, thank you so much. Your kind encouragement means the world to me, and I'm glad you like my characterization of Tonks and Remus. Any criticism will be gladly received.

* * *

**Chapter Four: Into the Underground**

Slamming her apartment door in his face, Tonks screamed at Remus, "You're so goddamned indecisive!"

As Remus stooped exhaustedly to pick up what little luggage he had, she opened the door again, knocking his suitcase over. "And I'll see you tomorrow to meet Dumbledore. Down Street, remember."

"Yes, Tonks," Remus said, picking up his luggage again. Looking disgusted, she slammed the door in his face again, so hard that dust fell from the ceiling, adding yet more grey and white to Remus's already fading brown hair.

At the end of the hallway, out of sight of the nosy landlady, her white hair still in curlers, Remus apparated, too tired to care if he scared the entire floor with the pistol-like crack as he disppeared.

Once at Grimmauld Place, Remus negotiated through the truly filthy entranceway to the kitchen, where he made tea. Strong tea. Had it not been so close to full moon, he might have taken a swig of something a touch stronger, but alcohol invariably destroyed the efficacy of wolfsbane.

"Indecisive," Remus muttered to himself. "Since when does having a conscience mean – I'm fifteen years her senior, goddamnit!"

Grimmauld Place, of course, offered no answer except the tinny whistling of the tea coming to boil.

Still muttering to himself, Remus grabbed the kettle, a filthy mug he just couldn't bother to clean, and drank, alone. The darkness of the house pressed all about him, thick and unwelcoming. Even Kreacher would have been welcome – abuse received and abuse given, they'd have kept each other angry company. Anything was better than being so dismally silent.

* * *

It was a long and lonely night; Mundungus staggered in drunk at a quarter to twelve and collapsed on a sofa in the dilapidated parlor; Remus simply holed up on a chair in the study, too tired to find a bedroom he could bear to be in. Insomnia kept him drowsing but unasleep for hours, replaying the disastrous morning after until he wanted to smash everything pink and stamped with the "Weird Sisters" insignia.

Sleep finally came to him, at four in the morning, when he could hear the birds outside stirring themselves awake.

He only stole a few hours of rest, however; his internal clock had him up and making what he knew would be the first of many cups of tea at only 7:00 in the morning; noting Mundungus's after-ale grogginess, Remus found a bottle of Hethelfrutha's Hangover Helper and administered it liberally to Dung's usual pick-me-up of pumpkin juice and raw egg.

It was all he could do – be quiet, helpful, and go about his business normally, as if he weren't about to embark on what was probably the most dangerous mission of his life.

Remus simply sat in the dimly-lit kitchen until the great grandfather clock rang ten o'clock; then he stood, grasped his wand, and strode out the door, leaving Mundungus still groaning on the couch. A quick walk out into Grimmauld Place's dismal courtyard, and then apparition.

* * *

Remus couldn't help noticing that Tonks looked unusually peaky – a little paler than usual, and her hair an ugly mouse-brown shade she rarely favored. "Tonks…" he began, but stopped at another glare from the witch, and fell into step silently.

Dumbledore was waiting for them at a corner, attracting fascinated stares for his violet robes and teal wizard's hat; Remus had dressed a more conservative brown, and might have been mistaken for a don, had he been in Oxford; Tonks always went in muggle clothing when not on auror's duty.

"Well! Remus, Nymphadora, how lovely to see you. Shall we?" He led the way, striding boldly, the tips of his dragonhide boots showing from under his robes; Remus followed a pace behind, uncomfortably aware of the silent auror beside him. She was looking damned near murderous, and Remus couldn't help but wonder if Dumbledore's cheerful affectations mightn't drive her to just that.

Taking a seat at a small café, and totally oblivious to the stares of the muggle waitstaff, Dumbledore motioned for the other two Order members to join him, and then began to peruse the menu, as if this were merely a social event, and not a top-secret Order meeting.

Quietly, as though he were talking about the weather, he began, "As I told you before, Remus, your line of work will be very similar to Severus's. As I'm sure you know, the 59 registered werewolves in Britain are hardly the only lycanthropes in the country; the Ministry suspects as many as one hundred, though there may be more. Many live in London, as I'm sure you know, while others inhabit the Forbidden Forest as best they can – though fatalities there are high even for werewolves. Your job, Remus, will be to gather as much information as possible on the activities of the illegal werewolves living in Britain. Any questions so far?"

Remus shook his head, and Tonks, for all her previous hostility, was staring hard at Dumbledore, fear and worry underneath her taught features.

"Good. Remus, we are currently on Down Street in London. Though I somehow doubt you are an expert on muggle transportation, it is a fact that many of the stations on the London Underground, once busy, have since fallen into disuse; indeed, some of these subways and platforms were used as bases for the Muggle Government during their second world war. One of them is located perhaps a block from where we are now sitting."

"That station is locked, and has been locked for years. Every so often the muggle government will unlock it briefly, but no ordinary wandering muggle can enter this station. It has fallen into disuse, and few even know of its continued existance, save as a red brick façade and home of a newsstand. They do not know that, underneath their very feet, a community of creatures they think imaginary monsters, eke out their existance."

"How do you know this?" Remus breathed, keeping his tone as light and casual as he could to match Dumbledore's assumed nonchalance.

With a twinkle in his eye, the wizard actually pulled up his violet robes, exposing a pink and knobbly knee, wrinkled in the extreme. "It is a funny thing," Dumbledore said, "but some eighty years ago I received a very special scar. Not quite like Harry Potter's, of course, but it has its uses. A complete replica of the London Underground, as it existed circa 1920; and as befits all magical scars – well, I looked into the possibilities of using it to track the goings-on underground, pardon my pun."

Remus stared, transfixed, at the tiny diagram etched in white on the great wizard's knee. "Professor Dumbledore, pardon me for saying this, but there is no-one but you who could possibly have something so fantastic on their thigh."

Dumbledore winked roguishly, but quickly became more serious. "Aside from the location of this band of outlaws, I know nothing. I do not know whether they will accept you for what you are; I do not know whether they will attack you. I know nothing of their political allegiances – simply that the Ministry knows nothing of them. Remus, you know what risks you take by doing this? I must send you, but I cannot until you fully understand –"

"I understand," Remus said, trying to restrain the fear that bloomed inside him. He was Gryffindor, after all, or had been; fear was to be faced, mastered, overcome, defeated. Tonks, however, looked utterly petrified.

"You're fine, throwing him to the wolves? You're fine with this?" It was bizarre and ironic to hear these angry words, from the obviously anxious young auror, come out in a casual, nonchalant tone of voice – they couldn't attract attention, and Tonks knew enough not to shout as he was sure she wanted.

Dumbledore looked as pained as he ever did, and regarded Tonks over the top of his spectacles for a long time before saying, "If I do not send Remus, then whom?"

Tonks fell silent, though she looked as if she might cry from fear. Impulsively, Remus reached out to grab her hand, holding it tight against him for a moment. Through tears burgeoning in her eyes, she smiled at him, and then brushed them away angrily. "This is stupid," she muttered. "As if I could stop you from doing what you wanted." She then reached into her voluminous pockets, rumaging for something hidden in her cargo pants.

"There!" she said happily, thrusting a two silver sickles onto the table.

"Tonks?" Remus said, unsure. Dumbledore looked intrigued himself.

"Hermione Granger showed me how last time I was at the Burrow. I could see she was bursting to know why, but I can keep a secret. Protean charms," she said, pleased.

"I'm still not sure what…" Remus said, trailing off at the broad smile on Dumbledore's face.

"My dear Nymphadora," Dumbledore said, "How clever of you! Yes, these will be very useful, since overt communication with the Order might well be too dangerous for your cover, Remus. Tonks, do explain?"

"They're charmed so that if you need to talk to us, you can set a date and a place to meet by changing the serial code here –" she tapped the bottom of the coin – "and the Gringotts motto here."

Remus couldn't help but grin himself. "Hermione Granger, you say? Brilliant girl, cleverest witch her age I've ever known."

* * *

When Tonks had finished her lemon sherbet with caramel sauce and whipped cream, Dumbledore had licked the last speck of fudge brownie from his whiskers, and Remus had licked the last trace of vanilla ice cream from his spoon, it was time to go. As they stood, Dumbledore grabbed hold of Remus's shoulder, and then gasped in pain when the blackened hand made contact. "Remus – before I forget –"

"What is it?" he said solicitously, steadying the old wizard.

"You are a spy," Dumbledore said simply, "A spy, and not a preacher, not a missionary. I know you will be tempted to help these people, but you are a spy. You must find a way to Greyback, you must win these werewolves' trust – remember, you are a spy. Information must always take precedence, however painful. Go well, my son."

Feeling as though he were receiving a benediction from a priest, he grasped Dumbledore's hand firmly and shook it, before the headmaster pulled him into a one-armed hug. "Two blocks down to the left. Alohomora, deceive the newspaper man."

Remus turned, and walked away, feeling oddly calm. He had nothing with him but his wand, Tonks's silver sickle, and the clothes on his back; he was utterly free from everything. Even his suitcase was still at Grimmauld Place. It was liberty, but a curious sort – unhappy, but free. He was reminded of a muggle song Tonks always played – as he remember, she quoted the singer often – "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose."

And then, suddenly, he was back in the physical world again as Tonks grabbed his arm, bringing him to a stop.

"Before you go down there, into that hellhole, you know –" she was shaking her fist at him, almost, her hair suddenly bright red – "that I love you. If you die, I will drag you back from the grave and kill you myself. If you get hurt, you answer to me. I am not going to lose you, I am not going to lose you like –"

Like Sirius. "Tonks, I am not going to die," Remus said, though he didn't believe it entirely himself.

"You'd better not," she said, and then kissed him, hard, predatory, and walked away.

Remus stared at her retreating back, at the hands shoved deep into her pockets, and the hair, so suddenly red and now fading again back to that ugly mousy brown.

Then, like all other emotions, he sublimated his love and fear and desire, and strode purposefully toward the red stone façade, a vivid antique against the grey-washed buildings surrounding it. The news stand stood empty but for a curious salesman; the door, a blue sign fixed on it, was locked and dusty. He tapped the handle surreptitiously, whispering an unlocking charm, and strode inside.

Immediately, he was struck by the cold, the dark, and the dust. Out of sight of any muggles, he whispered an illuminating spell, and the tip of his wand lit up the darkness around him for twenty feet – the fleeing shadows showed a rusted lift door and the top of a staircase, spiraling down into the darkness. As he walked toward the staircase, the whistling sound of a train below shattered the stillness, and dust motes rose with a sudden gust of air.

When all was still again, Remus approached the staircase, and began to descend. With each step lower, he felt his heart rise higher and higher in him, until he thought his fear and panic would spill out of his mouth. The thick dust on the stair muffled all sound, until only his beating heart and breath broke the silence.

Then, as he reached the bottom of the stair, and gazed into the labyrinthine subway tunnels, a voice called out, "Who the hell are you?"


	5. Down Under Down Street

Chapter Five: Meet the Pack

"Who the hell are you?"

Remus spun around in the dark, holding his wand out directly in front of him, the beam of light from his _lumos_ spell showing a young man, dirty and unkempt, so thin he looked like a skeleton, a dangerous sneer on his face.

Lowering his wand somewhat, Remus realized that this must be one of the werewolves he was supposed to … liaise with. "I'm Remus Lupin. Who are you?"

"Don't ask any damn questions, dirtbag – I'm getting Barbicon." Then the boy – man? – raised his head back and gave a spine-tingling howl, for all the world as though he were a full wolf.

Any doubts Remus might have had about the boy's lycanthropic nature disappeared.

"You stay here, goddamn you. Are you one of those ministry bastards?" He was eying Remus's wand with envy, fear, and a wary respect, staying back and on the balls of his toes, as if he expected Remus to start throwing curses at any minute. It made Remus wonder sickeningly what kind of experience the young werewolf had had with "ministry bastards".

"I'm not from the ministry, no," Remus said cautiously. "Who's Barbicon?"

The other man spat derisively in the dust. "No damn questions until Barbicon's through with you. I should kill you myself now before you go running to the ministry."

Then, suddenly, he went rigid – "Wait a goddamn second, what the hell are you doing down here? How did you know how to find us?"

Then suddenly three men – were they all men? – came bursting down through one of the tunnels, apparently answering the first werewolf's signal howl.

The first, a tall and muscled man – also thin, Remus noted – had a look of hard anger mingled with fear on his features, and he did not stop running when he approached Remus. Before he could react, the man had slammed Remus into the ground, his greater weight and height driving him hard into the dirt. Trying to roll out from under the larger werewolf, Remus let loose a silent and mostly harmless hex, sending painful sparks towards his assailant. With a grunt, the man freed Remus partially, and with a great effort Remus got to his feet, wand outstretched to ward the others off.

"Goddamnit, Barbicon!" a woman shouted, her voice hoarse. "If he's got a wand – "

Slowly, Remus lowered his wand entirely, and then said, "I don't want to fight. I swear by Merlin, I don't intend to run to the ministry about you."

The big man who had charged Remus – Barbicon – looked wary, perhaps even terrified, but it was clear he wasn't done fighting if it was necessary. "Who the hell are you? What are you doing here – hell, how did you know we'd BE here?"

Still gripping his wand firmly, Remus said, "My name is Remus Lupin – "

"Remus Lupin! You're that bastard as got up the werewolf scare with that Umbridge bitch, aren't you, the one who was at Hogwarts?" His questioner had hung back with the hoarse-voiced woman, and as Remus peered through the gloom, barely illuminated by his reignited _lumos_, he saw that it was a skinny man, perhaps in his twenties, who wouldn't stop jiggling his hand.

Swallowing hard, Remus said, "Yes. I am the aforementioned bastard."

"I should kill you right now, you little bastard. Do you know how hard it was for the rest of us after those Ministry pricks passed the Full Disclosure amendment? Barbicon, can I kill him?" The man was deadly serious.

"Hold your peace, Fletcher," Barbicon said, shifting his weight slightly, his huge shoulders partially blocking Remus's view of the others. "I want to hear this one out. So you're a werewolf?

"Bitten when I was four."

"And you survived?" Barbicon was incredulous.

"My parents loved me. My mother did research for Damocles Belby. She died when I was fifteen…"

"Enough of this," Orestes growled, his voice losing some of its menace with an adolescent oscillation in pitch. "I still wanna know how the fuck he knew we'd be here."

"Good question. Lupin – how did you know?"

"Since 1994, I've been living as a muggle. Including taking the Tube. I don't know if you know, but the Down Street platform is visible from the train." He was making it all up as he went, lying through his teeth – the truth, obviously, would not suffice. "Anyway. Muggles, they saw something moving on the platform, thought it was ghosts of all things – they can be perceptive, more than we give them credit. I thought it might be dementors. They're breeding. I hate dementors."

"You came down here hunting dementors?" Barbicon's voice was utterly skeptical.

"Kieran and Kevin Pepper, 9 and 7 respectively, are living shells as of last Thursday. I used to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, the year they were stationed at Hogwarts. I don't – like – dementors." That was the trick to telling a lie: keep as much truth as possible in it. The more true it was, the more you felt it, the easier it was. That was why he'd been able to tell James and Sirius and Peter his mother was sick all those years – because she had been.

"So you just came down here to see if you could find any dementors, all on your own? Just happened to come to Down Street, where we just happen to be, and you just so happen to be a werewolf? Like hell I believe you." Barbicon spat on the floor, leaving Remus at a loss for words.

"How do we know you're not going to go run to the Ministry? You're a tame werewolf, aren't you?" It was Orestes again, spitting out the word tame as the vilest epithet he knew.

"I hate the Ministry." And he did; hated that he was disenfranchised, that he was legally bereft of rights, that he was so heavily regulated simply for what he was that he was chained as tightly as any dog – tame, in Orestes' words, and he did nothing about it because it would be too hard, would be imprudent.

In the dim light from Remus's wand, he could see Barbicon's eyes narrow. "You work for Greyback, don't you? He sent you here. I told that sonofabitch to keep away from my bloody pack –"

"Fenrir Greyback stole any chance of a normal life I ever had when I was all of four. I do not follow him, or any of his – crowd."

Remus stared at Barbicon. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife; Barbicon's werewolves were tense and ready to spring forward, and though they kept an eye on his wand, their fear of discovery seemed to be outweighing their fear of any curses Remus might send. As Remus realized, he was about to be very dead in perhaps a minute or two if he did not act decisively, so he stooped, keeping his eyes fixed on the werewolves in front of him, and placed his wand down on the dusty floor of the Down Street Station subway.

Everything went dark as his _lumos_ was extinguished.

Suddenly, the first young man, Orestes, charged him again. This time Remus was ready, and darted backwards out of the way as his ears guided him – but the other man was younger, faster, and more used to the dark, disused station – Remus was sprawled on his back again, Orestes's hands at his throat.

"Orestes!"

At Barbicon's barked command, Remus felt the pressure lessen, and then he was free from the young werewolf's death grip. With a groan – he was getting older – he picked himself up the floor again.

And light flickered back into existence, Barbicon Briggs brandishing Remus Lupin's battered old phoenix-feather wand. "I haven't held one of these in twenty years," he said in wonderment and delight.

Remus stared at the pack. They stared at him.

"Let me stay. I came down here hunting dementors because – five days ago I lost the third flat I've kept this year, and I have no money. I've run out of wolfsbane potion, I have no job, or at least, what I have amounts to little more than wizards using me in the war. I have nothing but the clothes on my back and the – well, not even my wand anymore. I don't know who or what you are, but whatever you are you're better than – than starving or joining Greyback's filth. I have so little I was willing to risk losing my soul just to – to do something, instead of having it done to me!" He was impassioned. Remus had been a consummate actor once, both muggle and wizarding plays, and it was easy to slip into another character, to wear its skin as if it were his; after all, this pretend Lupin was very much like himself. So much so he was in danger of believing his own fabrications.

Remus could see Barbicon was about to refuse his supplications, and prepared himself to die in this dusty relic of a train station, until the hoarse-voiced woman spoke up again.

"Barbicon, don't kill him. If you trust me at all – give him until the thirtieth. If I'm wrong, I swear, I'll kill him myself, but if it weren't for charity before – Odette and Petar…"

"Alright, Martha," Barbicon breathed with a sigh.

Orestes looked murderous, but a single glare from the larger man stifled any protest a-borning.

"You. Lupin. Come with us."

The pack – that was what they were – knew the long-abandoned tunnels of the Down Street station so well they did not need the flickering wand light in Barbicon's hand, but Remus was glad for it – there was something truly eerie in the half-stripped tile walls, the disused shafts, and the drafts of air from the trains below; without the light he would have felt utterly vulnerable. As it was, he still could not believe he had not died at the foot of the spiral stair.

And then, suddenly, Remus was assaulted by what seemed like blinding light – Barbicon had halted at the end of one of the tunnels that ran through the labyrinthine station, where a rough camp had been assembled. The first thing that hit him was the stench. Then he took it in visually – blankets filthy enough to be called rags, food, junk, personal possessions that were as good as junk, and fire – _magical_ fire – glowing inside metal trash barrels. Remus was overcome by the sense of permanent impermanence he always felt around the homeless – which, now, he was.

A frail old man was lying in a corner near one of the fires, and Remus could see that he was cold. Though July was hot and humid above, the abandoned subways retained only sickly dampness; it was chilly here.

"Petar. This is Lupin. He is safe. New, but safe. He is safe, Petar."

And, as Martha comforted the old man, Remus saw that Petar was afraid, too – and he felt hot shame for having caused such fear.

"I am Remus Lupin, and I'm not – I – I'm safe," he finished somewhat lamely. 'I'm not going to hurt you' seemed ludicrous, given exactly how dead he would be if he even tried.

"You – you… safe?" The old man's accent was nearly impenetrable, but an odd vacancy in his eyes made Remus suspect it was more than age and unfamiliarity with English that caused Martha to speak so slowly.

"You're safe, Petar Radulescu," Barbicon said. "He has no wand."

The old man relaxed slightly, though his eyes remained fixed on Remus.

The nervous man Barbicon had called Fletcher, after scanning the blankets, exclaimed, "Where's the Frog?"

Remus couldn't understand what he meant by frog, though Barbicon responded, "I sent her out for food. We don't have enough until the thirtieth."

"You shouldn't send her out," Orestes said angrily. "She's not practical – always brings back perishables."

"She was going stir-crazy, you know how Odette can be," the hoarse-voiced woman, Martha, said.

As the four wizards and the witch talked amongst themselves, Remus could feel the tension drifting away – all involved in the standoff had been terrified, himself included, and now that Remus had been rendered a non-threat, all of that tension was dissolving in minor bickering.

When the pack had finished rowing over Odette, whoever she might be, Barbicon turned to Remus, his face hard and cautious. "We sleep, eat, live here. You're not to leave this part of the station unless someone's with you, until I say otherwise. As you're new, you'll have cooking and latrine duty, again until I say otherwise. You listen to me, you listen to Orestes. Martha's your nanny for the time being, since she volunteered. You kip in the corner. Everyone's responsible for keeping the fires going. We get rats down here all the time, so watch yourself, they're not afraid to take a bloody bite out of you. Oh, and Lupin? You make one false move, and I'll kill you. I won't let you harm these people. You might be sleeping here, but you're not pack until I say you are."

With that, he turned and walked away, calling out to Orestes, "You've got guard duty for another hour. Jitters – you're after Orestes."

The witch, Martha, pulled out a cigarette. To Remus's utter shock, its end began to smolder apparently all of its own. "How did you do that?"

"The cigarette?" she asked, exhaling pungently. "Barbicon taught us. We can't do much, but it's the same principle as wordless magic. Wandless, we're damned limited, but we've all learned how to conjure fire to some degree, since we need it so badly, and Orestes has gotten pretty good and summoning things. Small things, and not very far, but it's useful when we need supplies. Necessity is the mother of invention and so forth, I'll teach you later if you survive the thirtieth."

The thirtieth. The next full moon. In three days' time.

Everything was so overwhelming: he'd lost his wand, was trapped in a tunnel of fairly hostile werewolves who could conjure fire out of thin air, and –

"Barbicon mentioned latrines? Begging your pardon, but…"

"Second tunnel on your left. No, on second thought, I'll show you."


	6. Words About Wands

**Chapter Six**: **Words about Wands**

Remus's first day among the Down Street werewolves was, after the first terrifying minutes, strangely boring. There was nothing to do; forbidden to leave the inhabited tunnel without escort or permission, without wand or book, Remus could only sit, and brood.

Conversation was nearly impossible. Martha, though more than happy to inform Remus of the location of the latrines and show him how to heat tinned beans over a flaming dust bin, was not at all interested in discussing such irrelevant matters as what was going to happen next, what the pack did on full moons, where Barbicon had gone, who Odette was, or, for that matter, who she was. All he'd gotten out of her was her surname, Abbot, and Remus didn't feel brave enough to ask whether she was related to _the_ Abbotts.

Petar Radulescu, while obviously pleased at the tinned beans Remus doled out, did not appear to know much English beyond 'Thank You', and in any case, seemed to prefer sleeping huddled under a dubiously-clean army blanket.

The angry wizard Barbicon had called Fletcher but the others all seemed to call Jitters swore obscenely at Remus's friendly overtures ("Would you like some beans, too?") and lit up another cigarette, which seemed to soothe his constantly trembling hands somewhat. Both he and Martha appeared to be chain smokers; while Remus had indulged once or twice with Sirius in his youth, he had long since kicked the habit, and found it nearly impossible to breathe in the stuffy tunnel, with its combined odors of sweat, unwashed clothing, refuse, and cigarette smoke.

Inward reflection, all of it gloomy, consumed him for several hours.

Then, at last, something happened: namely, the mysterious Odette appeared.

Remus looked up at the sound of footfalls, expecting to see Barbicon or Jitters (he had since replaced the equally unfriendly Orestes on guard duty). Instead, it was a slender witch of no more than twenty-five, her hands full with several large and battered plastic bags. She dumped them unceremoniously before Martha, stretching out her fingers.

"The shopkeeper is getting suspicious, we cannot go to Mayfair's anymore," she said in lightly-accented English.

"Perhaps he wouldn't be so suspicious if you weren't always stealing trash like this!" Martha said, pulling out a loaf of apparently fresh bread. "He might be a muggle, but of course he's going to notice if you keep taking things right out from under his eye. And it would be so much more sensible of you to go to a Tesco."

"There is no Tesco for streets and streets!" Odette snapped. "And I simply cannot eat nothing but canned beans and tomato soup, it is ridiculous. You are all so unhealthy because you eat nothing but trash yourselves."

It looked like a pitched battle, but suddenly Odette noticed Remus, who had stood upon her entry.

"Who is this?" she asked, a bite in her voice, but not quite so hostile.

"I'm Remus Lupin," Remus said.

"Barbicon's taken him in," Martha said, "at my encouragement. Orestes found him wandering around here looking for Dementors, of all things. He's on probation, so don't get too attached if you can help it; like as not he won't be here with us, one way or another, past the thirtieth."

"And I thought I had the world's most ironic name for a werewolf," Odette said admiringly. "Remus? Lupin?" Her accent became even more apparent on the last word, her inflection of Lupin making it was clear that she was of French origin.

"My mother thought it was funny," Remus said. "Lupin being a sort of French werewolf, after all. And she was a Diana. It wasn't funny after I was bitten, though."

"No, no, it is not a Lupin, it is a _lubin_," Odette said with a laugh. "And _lubins_ are not really werewolves; that would be a _loup-garou_. _Lubins_ are gentle things, like canine unicorns. All dead now, though, because idiot French wizards kept mistaking them for the real thing."

She was utterly charming, and her lack of hostility, even nervousness, was disarming after the chilly welcome from the others. She was young and pretty, and the way she was eying Remus, after only a minute's acquaintance, gave him pause.

And Martha, too. "I told you not to get attached, Odette."

"I am not attached, I am being friendly," she said, obviously annoyed. "Come, Mister Lupin, and tell me how on earth you come to be in this hellhole."

She sat crosslegged next to a pile of blankets, a stack of garbage bags filled with what appeared to be clothing, and what looked like a French muggle Bible.

Orestes, who had been napping fitfully, was by now awake, and glowering with even more hostility even than before; Remus hesitated before sitting, but decided it would be ridiculous to refuse.

"I – it's not very interesting. I lost my flat a few days ago, but I've been down and out since '94. After I lost my job at Hogwarts, everyone knew who I was even without Umbridge's new werewolf disclosure laws."

"You were at Hogwarts! But so was I, for the Triwizard Tournament. How is it that I did not see you there?"

"I left Hogwarts the year before – I resigned, you see. I was unsafe, the last full moon of semester, and I could not stay on after that. I could not let myself endanger children. But, of course, it hit the papers that I was a werewolf, so no man would hire me after that, or almost none." Remus could not quite keep a note of bitterness out of his voice as he told all this to Odette. He was not accustomed to telling anyone this – his remaining friends in the Order already knew, and British wizards slammed the door in his face at the first mention of lycanthropy.

"That leaves two years, Mister Lupin?"

With a sigh, Remus said, "I struggled. For a year I managed on odd jobs, until my employers realized they'd read my name in the paper and conveniently made me redundant. Then Umbridge passed her laws, you see, and I tried to find work with muggles, but I could not keep one when there was younger and more dependable labor, which didn't need three days off a month for sick leave. Without a job, wizarding or muggle, I ran out of money even for wolfsbane. There was nowhere to go, you see – or nowhere I wanted to go. I could have institutionalized myself at St. Mungo's, in the closed wards where they keep werewolves without the money to house themselves and keep themselves in potion; but that is lifelong imprisonment, no matter how gilded."

Remus saw Martha flinch at the mention of St. Mungo's, and looked at her quizzically, before continuing, "Or I could have taken sides in this war we're fighting. I am a werewolf, so naturally wizards assume I would fight for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named; but you see, I taught Defense _Against_ the Dark Arts. The Ministry would never hire me, though there are others on the side of the light, vigilantes, who would buy my service readily."

Remus could not make himself speak. The story was partly fabrication, but enough of it was true that the bitterness underlying his speech gave him pause.

Odette was watching him, her dark eyes perceptive and curious. Tucking a strand of her light brown hair behind an ear, she asked, "But why did you come here, of all places?"

"I used the muggle trains before I lost my last muggle job – passing what's left of the platform, I saw the ghost of a movement, figures in the station. I've told Barbicon that I came down here to hunt Dementors. You can kill a dementor, you know; not easily, but a strong enough _Patronus_, if the Dementor is pinned, can drain it until it's nothing but mist. I thought – I thought I'd come down here and take as many of them out with me as I could…."

"And instead you found us – Barbicon's little band, the Pack of Down Street Station."

"Pack," Remus said, musing on the word. "And you, Odette? How did you come to be here in this … pack?"

"I am not very interesting either, Mister Lupin," she said with a small smile. "Odette Beranjon, originally of Paris. My English is so good because I am muggle-born, you see, and my parents thought I should learn another language; my mother taught English in a University. I was bitten just one year ago, when I was in Rumania – I was a fool, you see; the man was trying to recruit me, of all things, because I spoke too lightly of Dumbledore and his speech, the one he gave to his school when Cedric Diggory died. I fled from Rumania, and from my friends, for I could not – endanger – them. And I fled from France, too. I could not return to my parents. They are muggles, what could they do? They think I am dead, I think.

"I had to leave France – their werewolf laws – well, they make Umbridge look like a saint, you know? Petar, too – when he left Azkaban he was to be deported back to Romania, but there is a death penalty just for being a lycanthrope there."

"Petar was in Azkaban?"

Martha, who had been sitting by the sleeping old man, interjected, "For fifty years. It's a wonder he's alive. He fell in with Grindelwald when he was a boy, like most of the other East European werewolves. It was British aurors who took him, though, or else he'd be dead."

It explained Petar's vacancy and fearfulness, at least; Remus could not decide whether he thought it would have been more merciful for Petar to have been killed all those years ago. Fifty years of dementors…. It was unthinkable.

"Still, England is a paradise compared to the continent," Odette said heavily. "Better to be alive and free than dead or jailed –" Her speech trailed off, the young woman obviously unwilling to say anything more.

But as Odette grew quiet, Orestes spoke up suddenly. "So tell us, Lupin, how is it that you were bitten as a kid but you have a wand, and everything? Where'd you learn your magic?" Orestes had been lying supine since he'd been replaced on guard duty, showing no sign of listening to Remus and Odette's conversation, but his tone was aggressive, angry, and Remus was nervous.

Very few people knew the exactitudes of Remus's years at Hogwarts, and his admission to the school; it would be impossible to explain fully about the Shrieking Shack, or even to mention his friends… but Dumbledore he could mention. Dumbledore he could use, building on the persona he'd begun to establish already, that angrier, more bitter Lupin who proved so easy to play.

"I went to Hogwarts. Dumbledore had mercy on me. There are few parents who'd want to send a werewolf child to a school like Hogwarts, given how young most die, and there's only one headmaster there who'd ever take a werewolf on."

"And the moon? How did you transform? Didn't the kiddies notice you had fangs and fur once a month?"

"The headmaster said that if I were locked up, put in a cage of sorts, there was – how did he say it – 'no reason I shouldn't come to school, as long as I took certain precautions.' Of course, Dumbledore never does anything solely from the goodness of his heart. He let me in to Hogwarts, and for the rest of my adult life, he figured on my gratitude, my debt. He tried to use me – tries. But I'm not – what did you call me, Orestes? Tame? I didn't want to be his tame werewolf. I didn't want to grovel."

Except, of course, that he was – Dumbledore's tame werewolf, through and through. The irony did not escape him – it had been Snape's epithet, and it stuck because it was more than passing true – he was being used as a weapon, just as Voldemort used Greyback and his … pack.

"I'd have been ready to do some groveling to get at a wand," Orestes hissed. There was something dangerous in his eyes, a hunger; Remus pitied the boy, but was also strongly reminded that he was, at the moment, wandless.

"I suppose the question is how much of your soul you're willing to sell," Remus replied quietly. "How much you're willing to pretend you don't mind the discrimination, until you're discriminated away into nice little cells at St. Francis's Centre."

"Yeah, well, I don't see you making any bloody valiant stands," Orestes sneered. "Do you know how much – how bloody lucky – everything you've had? You have a fucking wand, man! You're free, too, nobody from the bloody Werewolf Registry who wants to through you in Azkaban, nobody from bloody St. Mungo's who wants to lock you up in a nice little ward to keep you away from all the _innocent_ people."

Martha flinched at the mention of St. Mungo's, something stirring in her face, and Remus looked at her quizzically for a moment before turning back to Orestes.

"Oh yes, I know exactly how lucky I am," Remus breathed. "I even had friends, once, and a home. But my friends are dead. And I don't have a job. And I can't pay the rent because Dumbledore still wants to use me and it's the only work I'd ever get, but you see, even though I've been short on galleons all of my life, I've never had to do without my dignity, for what it's worth, and I don't want to be a wizarding tool in this war, because whoever wins won't and doesn't give a damn what happens to the werewolves, and the giants, and the centaurs, and the merpeople, except as far as they can help him win. Dumbledore or – well, they're all the same in the end."

Remus had been so intent on his words he'd not seen the leader, Barbicon, return – hadn't seen the tall, cautious man pad softly into the tunnel's end, his arms crossed as he listened to Remus's speech. Orestes' changed focus, however, prompted Remus to turn, and meet the pack leader's implacable gaze.

"So you know Dumbledore."

Remus scrambled to his feet to face the man, unwilling to speak to this man, of an age with himself but somehow much older and more tired, while crouching on the filthy ground.

"I've known Dumbledore for many years. I went to Hogwarts and I'd guess you did, too, if you can use a wand." For there, in Barbicon's left hand, was Remus's wand, tip aglow with a _lumos_.

"For six years. We might have overlapped in years, but I don't remember you, Lupin; and it's irrelevant anyway. You don't just know Dumbledore from your schooldays, Lupin."

"I was his Defense Professor for a year; and when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named returned last year Dumbledore tried to enlist me. Figured I'd be grateful, that as a werewolf I should be begging at his feet for the opportunity."

Remus spoke quietly, meeting Barbicon's gaze; the man did not trust him an inch. Remus knew his initial story, about the dementors, had been weak; knew that he was only alive because Martha, for whatever inscrutable reasons she had, had vouched for him.

"Alright, Lupin. That's not the most important issue right now, anyway. We need to make some decisions about the coming moon – Fletcher should be here for it."

"I"ll fetch him," Orestes said, and he got to his feet with an agile grace, loping around the corner and into the darkness, his receding footfalls echoing back.

"Sit down, all of you," Barbicon said, and he took a seat himself. "Martha, can you wake Petar? I know he will not understand much, but he should listen, too."

They formed a circle. Barbicon was nearest to the tunnel's mouth, flanked by Martha on his left and Orestes, when he returned, on his right; Petar sat next to Martha, and Odette sat next to Orestes. Then, toward the back of the tunnel, were Lupin and the jittery man, Fletcher. Fletcher sat nearest to Odette, and Lupin to Petar. It was, Lupin realized, a visible representation of some sort of hierarchy, with Barbicon the visible leader.

"Now that we're all here," Barbicon began. "You've all seen Lupin. I don't know how much of his story I believe, and I don't trust him out of my sight, but regardless of his honesty or trustworthiness, he provided us with a wand. I haven't had a wand for ten years, and that I stole; my own wand was snapped when I was seventeen. The rest of us have all lost our wands at varying times, from the British Ministry, or those abroad," he said, nodding at Petar.

"Because none of us have had a wand, we've fled down here, into Down Street – it's a place to hide from muggles and wizards alike. The Ministry doesn't bother us because they don't know we exist, and the same from the muggles. We lock ourselves up down here every moon, and we suffer in the dark and silence. It isn't as bad as it could be, since we're a pack, and we keep ourselves from going utterly mad, but it's a wonder we haven't broken through onto the platform more often than we have. We haven't had a wand to make wards, so we've had to rely on just the brute force of muggle iron.

"But now we have a wand. One wand, yes, but that's enough to make wards, so that there's no chance we'll burst through locked doors onto the platform and towards another station. We could cage ourselves even better than we are now." He paused, and looked around at all of the assembled wizards and witches.

Orestes, to his right, looked both angry and excited; he regarded Remus's battered wand with an ugly, hungry greed. Martha looked troubled, but it was hard to read the woman, for she had schooled her rough features into remaining unexpressive. Odette looked eager, and hopeful; she was the only one to do so. Petar looked confused and anxious, clearly not understanding anything, as Barbicon had anticipated. Jitters Fletcher looked restless, and was not happy at Barbicon's mention of wards; Remus could tell he was biting back words with all his force. Barbicon himself was as masked as Martha, but he was not finished speaking.

"We could ward ourselves in. Or we could travel. The reason we're all in this rat hole is because we've got nowhere else to go – this is the best place any of us know for werewolves to hide. But with a wand, we could go somewhere free, and empty, and quiet – we could go somewhere in the open to transform, this moon, and all the ones after it. We could even leave Down Street forever. But I'm not saying we should," he said, and the rapturous expression that had been on his face for only a moment fled. "We'll attract more attention like that, from both sides, and I know none of us want that. No, not even you, Orestes, if you'd bloody think about it! So. I want to hear what all of you say about what we should do about the wand before I make my decision."

He turned to Orestes first, who took a moment before saying anything. "I say we take the wand and go. I've spent all of my life transforming in pits or in this bloody abandoned station, tearing myself to pieces for lack of anywhere to run, anything to pursue. I'm not saying we should go anywhere near humans or anything, I'm not like _them_, but it would be marvelous to go somewhere – anywhere. I've never been out of London since before I was even four, you know? I say we take this as a gift. If _he_ hadn't come down here," and Orestes' head jerked towards Lupin, "we'd still be stuck here, miserable as ever, but I say we go."

He nodded at Martha, who took this as her cue to begin. "Orestes, I know why you want to get out of here – we all hate transforming – but it's not safe. It's never been safe, but now we have a wand we can make wards, we can seal ourselves off completely. I'll do as Barbicon says, but I think we ought to stay. It's too much risk otherwise – and I don't mean for ourselves, I mean for humans. If we bite a muggle, they'll _die_, they can't survive dark bites, and if we bite a wizard they'll figure out where we are, who we are. And I'm not going to endanger anyone if I can help it."

Then it was Odette, who looked the most animated and happy. "I say we treat it as a gift, too! I am with Orestes, why should we shun this? I came to England for freedom, and warding ourselves in a cage is not free. Why should we have to suffer like animals, if we could go somewhere where we can breathe and run? It is not fair that we should constantly deprive ourselves of everything because of what we are at no fault of our own!" She was impassioned, her brown eyes flashing and high color in her cheekbones; she turned towards Orestes, who was smiling at her, his dark eyes alight also. They were of an age with each other, Remus reflected, and small wonder that Orestes was –

But there was no time for that thought, for now the man Fletcher was speaking. "I don't see why everyone's so fussed about some bloody humans, anyway," he said, his hands twitching as he spoke. "I'm sick of staying down in this fucking hole anyway, we've got rights too as far as I'm concerned. If we've got a wand, let's go somewhere that isn't here! I wish we could burn this shite-hole down and leave it, I would if I could." He jerked his head to show he was finished speaking, and Barbicon turned to look at the Romanian, Petar Radulescu.

Martha was bent over beside him, whispering to him, and his fearful, vacant eyes, peering out from under the greyed mat of hair obscuring most of his face, darted from Barbicon to Lupin to Orestes to Fletcher to Martha again before he said, in a hoarse, whispery voice, "I – I – safe. Barbicon? Stay safe." He clutched his ragged blanket to himself, and said no more, his gaze darting fearfully to Lupin and Orestes every so often.

Barbicon sighed, and nodded gently. "We'll keep you safe, Petar." Then his eyes grew cold, and he looked directly at Remus. "Do you wish to speak?"

He had not been expecting the chance, and it shocked him. He did not know what to say – he could feel the desire for freedom in Orestes and Odette, and sympathized; but they were young and foolish, and when he had been young and foolish he had nearly killed because he valued freedom over safety.

But this was not about his personal choice now. Orestes, it was clear, was second only to Barbicon, and Odette was dynamic; but Martha, too, seemed to have influence, and she was cautious. Remus was unsure how to speak, but finally he said, "I have not transformed without wolfsbane for two years, six if you do not count a single incident two summers ago. I – I know I do not matter, but I would say we should find the safest place possible." He paused, seeing the ugly look on Orestes' face, but went on. "But I don't think it's here. I mean, I found it, didn't I? I don't think this place is as safe as it could be. Somewhere desolate, somewhere far away, that's where we should go."

He jerked his head firmly, once. "Barbicon – sir – whatever you'd have me call you – I know I have no right to speak. I am an intruder, an outsider, and I know you cannot trust me, I know why. But if I've found you here, others will, too, perhaps not soon, perhaps not for years, but they will. If you do not wish to be found, you must find a better place to hide."

There was quiet for almost a minute, Barbicon's dark face revealing little. Remus did not flinch away from his gaze. Finally, he spoke. "Martha, I think you're right that we should do everything possible to prevent anyone finding us, or us finding them. But I think Lupin, for what it's worth, is right, too. How many people have we found, or have found us? Orestes, and you, and Petar, and Fletcher I found elsewhere, but Odette found us, like Lupin, only she was transformed – she smelled us out. So who's to say that one of Greyback's lot couldn't do the same? No, I've made up my mind. I'm going to find somewhere for us, somewhere safe, by the thirtieth. We'll ward it off, Martha, we'll make sure nobody will find us, and we'll transform in the open, outside of here, and we'll use Lupin's wand."

With that, he stood, and it was clear all discussion was over. "Odette, you've got guard duty, and Martha, you're after her. I'm going to have a smoke." And just before he walked out, he turned to Remus, and said, "Lupin. I thank you, not for anything you've done, but for having a wand."


End file.
